The Art of Coping
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: After the fall, John falls into a desperate struggle for sanity. Johnlock.
1. Present Day

**This is my own take on a particularly interesting plot twist I saw for the Sherlock reunion. **

***** This first chapter (THERE WILL BE MORE CHAPTERS-THIS ISNT THE END) is present-day, while the next chapter will be looking back at the first year w/out Sherlock and the next chapter will be the next year, then the chapter after that will most likely pick up from here or be in Sherlock's POV. **

**Thank you for reading! :) **

* * *

THREE YEARS AFTER THE FALL- PRESENT DAY

* * *

It had been a long time since Sherlock jumped off of the roof of St. Bart's, and John sat in his chair across from the detective's leather seat, staring at the man in front of him.

The man in question sat across from John, hands resting on the chair's arms as he stared at the calm doctor.

John chuckled, completely at ease, and closed his eyes. Opening them again, he was rewarded with the sight of the detective.

He got up out of the chair and reached for the familiar knife resting on the barren kitchen table. The blade hovered along the multitude of scars from previous cuttings as the doctor studied Sherlock's face. The detective made no move to stop John from drawing blood, although his eyes flashed and his right hand twitched.

John turned away from Sherlock, quickly wrapping a clean bandage around his bleeding arm, and grabbed his jacket.

He exited the flat, quickly followed by the detective, and, ignoring the multiple cabs in the street, walked to the store.

Sherlock hovered around John, blending in with the crowd, and received not one glance from the many people bustling along the street.

The doctor walked into the store, wandering into the frozen products section, and began looking at milk. Quickly locating the bottle he desired, John stared for a moment longer at the shelves with a quizzical look on his face.

John felt the detective's puzzled stare as he stood in the middle of the isle. The seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes turned to an hour before John moved once again. A pretty woman tapped his shoulder.

She asked him if he needed help; he replied that he was rubbish at shopping. She offered to help him look for the rest of his groceries, and was rewarded with a gracious, if not flirtatious, grin.

The pair walked the isles, picking up teabags, sugar, and a few other mundane items before checking out. The woman seemed to have forgotten that she came to the store to buy her own food, because she left with John empty handed.

They paused outside of the store, moving out of the entrance so that other people could access the shop, and stood in the direction of Baker Street. John thanked her for helping him, and she replied by grabbing a bag of his groceries, claiming that he needed assistance to take his scant purchases home. He grinned and thanked her, leading the woman back to the flat.

John felt Sherlock's curiosity grow as the detective followed the pair back to the flat. The slightly predatory grin that stretched from ear to ear wasn't missed by the detective, though the woman wasn't paying attention, instead, she blathered about the weather.

Her voice grated on the doctor's ears.

They reached the flat, John unlocking and opening the door for the woman as she continued mindlessly chattering. She set the groceries on the bare table, and then asked if she could use John's loo. He showed her where it was and returned to the kitchen.

He repositioned the knife in his jacket, his thumb caressing the handle as he waited for the woman.

Sherlock sat once again in his chair, his face blank as he stared at the doctor.

John was irritated by the unwelcome presence of the specter and allowed himself to be comforted with the knowledge that it would be over soon.

The woman emerged from the loo and walked to the kitchen. John was putting the last of his purchases away and began to make tea. He made two cups, ignoring her when she told him how she liked her tea.

He brushed past her and set the two beverages on the desk by the leather chair the detective was currently residing in.

She heard him mutter something in the direction of the leather chair, something about making tea without drugging it, and her eyes flickered toward the seat before resting once more on the doctor.

The flirtatious grin had morphed to one of savagery and rage.

She backed away from him, not daring to look away from him for a second, until her back hit the wall.

He chuckled, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a sharp knife.

Her body shook as she began to sob.

_Please. _

Upon reaching the sniveling woman, he cut her arms, watching in morbid fascination as blood began trickling from her wounds. Her eyes widened as she gasped from the sight of her blood dripping on the floor.

It was then that she noticed little stains of red all throughout the flat; it was then that she knew she wasn't his only victim.

He began cutting her up, blood spurting everywhere as her wounds morphed from slow, thin, surface cuts to angry, fast, deep plunges of the soaked blade.

When his work was done, he turned away from her body, no longer holding it against the wall. It slumped and fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

John ignored the corpse as he stared at the detective on the couch. He relished Sherlock's horrified expression.

It wouldn't be long now.

He continued watching the detective, going from smug satisfaction to furious frustration.

Why hadn't the apparition vanished?

He stalked towards the detective, looming over the man. He began screaming, demanding to know why he wouldn't disappear.

He was silenced when realization dawned.

John stretched his hand out, wincing as it made contact with the detective's shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.


	2. First Year

FIRST YEAR WITHOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES

* * *

The first year without Sherlock was probably the worst thing John had ever gone through. It was worse than Afghanistan- injury included.

The first month after Sherlock jumped off of the roof of St. Bart's was comprised of silence. John didn't speak or see anyone. He sat in his chair, staring at the leather seat the detective had occupied. He knew that Mrs. Hudson came into the flat and restocked the kitchen, but he never looked at nor spoke to her. The only times John would get up were when he needed nourishment or relief. When he wasn't doing those things, John just stared, his mind blank.

The only time his mind was active was at night, while he was asleep. He would have horrible, bloody (in every sense of the word) nightmares. They were varied, some of them depicting the fall or Afghanistan, but they all involved Sherlock dying right in front of John, often in his arms.

Even when the nightmares plagued the doctor, he didn't make a sound. He didn't scream or shout. His breathing would be rapid and ragged, tears would be streaming down his face, but not even a whisper could be heard.

It was the sort of silence that spoke volumes louder than the most heart-wrenching cry and with far more eloquence than the most thought-out speech.

A few days after John realized that a month had passed since Sherlock's death, he fell into a peaceful sleep. It was the first time since the fall that he had a night of peaceful rest, and he hated it. His nightmares had been the only thing that allowed John to see his flat mate.

He had awoken with a shudder, his eyes not focusing on anything in particular. His head ached and his body felt as though someone had run him over.

He sighed, making noise for the first time, he realized belatedly, as he walked to the kitchen to make his meager breakfast.

He ate robotically, his head in a fog. What did it mean that he didn't dream about Sherlock? Was it going to become normal to have sleep as empty as reality?

Was he slowly beginning to forget the eccentric detective?

He froze, horrified. He wouldn't forget Sherlock, he _couldn't _forget him.

John wasn't sure how long he stood there, his entire being focused on the desecrating thought, before he shuffled back to his chair.

He sat down. staring at the ground before he looked up at the leather seat.

There was a person in the chair...

It couldn't be...

It was.

Sherlock sat in silence, staring at the doctor with such fervor that John's heart stopped. Could it be that the detective had returned to the grave for him?

John rushed to the man, torn between the desire to punch or hug him, and stood beside him. They grinned at each other, and John's pulse skyrocketed.

He wanted to be angry at the man for abandoning him, but the only thing that could come out of John's mouth was a simple confession, one overdone by teens and underappreciated by adults. He watched as the detective didn't say a word; he merely leaned forward, still grinning from ear to ear. John reciprocated, moving forward slowly until his face was inches from the detective.

Just as his hand touched Sherlock's, the detective's arm vanished. John stepped away, realization dawning.

It was all in his head. Sherlock Holmes wasn't real, wasn't alive.

He walked back to the kitchen, trying desperately to quell the newfound grief. He made tea; he needed some semblance of normality.

John prepared the soothing beverage mindlessly, not realizing that he made tea for two until he was pouring it into two cups. He sighed and took it back to the leather chair.

He needed normalcy, even if it wasn't real.

* * *

As the first year passed, it continued in this manner. John would wake up, sometimes from a nightmare and sometimes from a dark nothingness, and would see Sherlock across from him.

He would stare at the detective for a moment, before speaking. He would reach out and try to touch Sherlock, but he'd touch air. As soon as he removed his hand, the detective would reappear. John would then return to the kitchen and make tea for two. He would spend the rest of the day in either sorrowful silence or pointless blathering before falling back to sleep.

Every day he thought that maybe, just maybe, the detective wasn't dead. Every day he thought that maybe, just maybe, the detective returned to him.

Every day he was disappointed.

The detective never once uttered a word.

At first, John didn't mind the change because, no matter how heartbreaking it was, the specter made sure John would never forget his dead flat mate.

But as the days passed, going from weeks to months, he grew desperate.

He didn't want to continue acting as though Sherlock returned to him _every single morning_.

He wanted to forget his flat mate.

But nothing worked. Touching him resulted in the disappearance of whatever his hand reached towards, but it only lasted as long as John continued making contact. As soon as he removed himself, Sherlock reappeared.

To make matters worse, the detective took to moving around. He would follow John into the kitchen, though never the loo.

One day, John was making himself dinner. He took out a knife and began chopping up carrots. His attention wavered slightly as Sherlock walked up behind him, and John accidently sliced his hand open.

Cursing, John grabbed a nearby towel, wrapping it around his bleeding hand.

It wasn't until hours later when he was finished cleaning the wound that he realized Sherlock had vanished.

He grinned, carrying two cups of tea to the chairs and setting them on the table next to his seat.

He felt free for the first time in what felt like years. There was no Sherlock to be seen, and it wasn't hard for John to imagine that the eccentric detective hadn't even existed.

When John woke up the next morning and glimpsed the apparition staring at him, he wasn't angry or happy.

For the first time since the fall, John was apathetic.

It didn't bother him at all that the specter was back; he knew how to banish it to the hell from which it sprung.


	3. Second Year

SECOND YEAR WITHOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES

* * *

After cutting was proven to be effective in exterminating Sherlock's apparition, John's spirits rose. His arms grew littered with scars, but they were a small price to pay for the specter's disappearance.

At first, John merely pricked his fingers, producing only a drop or two of blood. He didn't bother trying to make it appear accidental; instead, he made a show of it.

He would wake up, undaunted regardless of nightmares, or lack thereof, and saunter to the kitchen. John's eyes would never leave the detective's perplexed facial expression and hesitant body language as he followed the smirking doctor into the kitchen. John would look away from Sherlock only to grasp the one knife he allowed to pierce his skin. Upon grasping the now-familiar weapon, he would brandish it in front of the puzzled detective. He would do this for a varied length of time; some days he toyed with the knife for a moment while other times he would caress it for hours.

The detective always appeared befuddled.

Once the doctor's anticipation reached uncontrollable heights, he would grasp the handle with one hand over the other's fingers. He would prick a random finger and watch the specter. As soon as the cool blade punctured John's skin, Sherlock's face would morph into horrified shock. He would move forward, his hand stretching towards the wound though his lips made no sound. As the apparition reached for John, it would dissolve into nothingness, leaving the doctor in solitude for the rest of the day.

The pricking lasted for two months, during which John's sanity grew (or shrank), and he was able to leave the flat. He returned to his job at St. Bart's, chuckling every time he looked at the roof.

The specter would be expunged in the mornings, so John was never bothered at his job or when he went to pubs with his friends or on dates with women. His friends were relieved that John seemed back to normal. They never brought up the detective and neither did the doctor.

His girlfriends came and went with the same (if not higher) speed than before Sherlock jumped (it was foolish to think of it as anything but intentional suicide). It didn't really bother him that his relationships weren't working out; he wasn't seeking love or a soul mate.

John had denied being gay for so long that, once the man who perpetuated such rumors was out of his way, he felt like he had to prove his heterosexuality. Whether it was through relationships that lasted two weeks tops or one night stands, being with women helped him forget that the one person he ever loved committed suicide right in front of him.

He found more pleasure not in indulging himself with various women, but in the mornings after.

Sherlock's apparition would be watching John as he awoke in his bed (he was finally able to sleep in his own room) beside a female with a hurt-filled, tearful expression coupled with an air of defeat. Seeing the pain on Sherlock's face filled John with exhilarating albeit sickening glee.

He would walk her out of the flat, stopping just in front of the door to kiss her (her eyes would close though his would remain open to savor every minute of the specter's obvious hurt). Sometimes, they would be long, languid kisses and other times they would be quick pecks, but they all made the apparition's sadness expand.

Once she had left the flat, John would walk up to the kitchen and begin his cutting ritual.

The first time he brought a woman to his flat and beheld Sherlock's devastated appearance, he hadn't done anything to make it disappear. He had been repulsed and ashamed of himself, raining apologies and sweet nothings upon the silent detective for the remainder of the day.

After a particularly gruesome nightmare the following night, John leapt out of his bed and into the kitchen, to make himself tea. He had been followed by the detective and, seeking comfort, thrown himself into Sherlock's arms. He was brutally disappointed when his embrace was met with air rather than flesh, and his anger returned, stronger than ever.

Why should he feel bad for insulting Sherlock when the man was haunting him? Why shouldn't John revel in the specter's anguish when it deserved it?

For whatever reason, John didn't prick his finger. Instead, he took the blade and sliced the skin on his arm, from elbow to wrist, and glared at the apparition until it vanished. He then stared at the blood dripping from his arm, mesmerized.

His mind sharpened, everything impossibly clear as his blood pooled on the floor.

His icy apathy returned, the pain from the self-inflicted wounds the only thing the doctor allowed himself to feel.

Even though his scarred arms were exposed when he slept with women, they never received attention. Whether they noticed or not, they never touched the marks nor questioned their existence.

He continued frivolously indulging in women for five months, until he snared a woman named Mary.

She was gorgeous, with a striking resemblance to Sherlock, and he ended up dating her for longer than two weeks. Mary was sweet and kind and, although John was still submerged in apathy, he allowed the relationship to continue. He didn't put much effort into the relationship, and Mary didn't like that.

Even though she was the sort of person that seemed to possess limitless patience and positivity, she grew frustrated. It was obvious to her that he didn't care about their relationship; it was obvious to her that, while he had stolen her heart, his was long gone.

She tried everything to make him like her, but it backfired. Instead, John grew more withdrawn and hostile.

It wasn't because of her that his mood darkened, though he could never tell her that.

As their relationship blossomed, cutting himself stopped working. At first, the detective would reappear only at the end of the day, but, despite the increasing depth and frequency of his injuries, Sherlock began reappearing minutes after the blade was removed and cleaned.

What was he to do now? It wasn't like the detective was hurt anymore by John's interaction with women; Sherlock's apparition took to derisively sneering at him when the doctor was around Mary. Sherlock bore a smug smirk, as though the detective was mocking John for his efforts to get over his dead love.

Mary did her best to quell her rising anger, but, one day, she snapped.

They were at John's flat watching a Bond film. John's ears, despite the apparition's frustrating silence, were ringing with the scathing criticism Sherlock had thrown at the screen when the doctor watched it with him. He clenched his fists and tapped his foot, willing himself to remain silent.

The next thing John knew, they were shouting at each other. He wasn't even sure why they were fighting or what was said, but he continued screaming back at her. He just wanted to get Sherlock's voice out of his head.

His mind snapped into awareness when she yelled that she quit; they were finished. Sherlock's smug smirk widened (if that was possible), and John's anger grew. He would show the detective that he was over him; he wouldn't let Sherlock ruin yet another of his relationships.

Masking his fury, John's voice morphed from angry screams to desperate pleading and husky reassurances of his affections; however, she was not moved. She stood and listened to John's lies, but she did not back down. Instead, Mary repeated that they were over. It was too late for him to apologize and claim he loved her. Did he really think she was so blind that she wouldn't be able to see that he loved another?

John snapped. Mary obviously hadn't thought before she asked the question, and she began apologizing, but it was too late.

She wasn't going to return to him even though she felt remorse for her careless queries, that much was obvious.

For a moment, John saw red as unspeakable rage encompassed him, but apathy took over once more.

If he couldn't have her, no one could.

He moved to the kitchen, acting as though he was going to make tea, and she followed him, apologies still pouring out of her ruby lips.

He reached for the knife and, quicker than thought, began plunging it into her body. Her eyes grew wide with shock, horror, and pain as the blade grew more and more slick with her blood. Her body sank to the ground, and John followed, still stabbing her though the life had left the beautiful green orbs.

John looked up and beheld Sherlock's familiar stunned expression before the apparition vanished.

John's eyes flickered towards the corpse before returning to the spot where the detective had previously stood.

_So that's all it took, _John thought, a satisfied smirk stretching across his blood-spattered face.

* * *

**Side note: I do not hate Mary at all, though I am a Johnlock shipper and do possess a fear that her presence in series three will cause John and Sherlock's dynamic to do a complete 180. While I am not entirely sure why I had John's girlfriend be Mary in this story, it is not because I loathe the character. **


	4. Third Year- John

THIRD YEAR WITHOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES

* * *

After removing Mary's corpse from 221B and eliminating any traces of evidence from both the flat and her body, John sat in his chair.

He stared at the detective's leather seat, relishing in the absence of the specter.

Of course, it would be back, but he was enthralled with the knowledge that he knew how to exterminate it once again.

Imagine his euphoria when the apparition didn't return for a week.

It wasn't something John noticed right away, but it often revealed itself when he was at work and he didn't see the detective glaring at Sarah or the particularly flirty patients he treated on occasion.

When Sherlock reappeared, John tried to extinguish his ghost by cutting his arm, but that still didn't work. He shrugged and didn't protest when the began specter shadowing him once again. John didn't know if his unexpected ease with the apparition was due to it's absence allowing his loathing to ebb slightly or if he was more comfortable because he knew how to make it disappear once more.

John was under no misconception about the difficulty of this new cure; while his cutting was considerably easier to carry out and conceal, murdering random people would prove to be quite challenging. Where was he going to get these new victims? How was he going to practice this unorthodox cure in secrecy?

Although he was perfectly fine with killing people to preserve what little sanity he still possessed, John wasn't fond of prison.

Living with Sherlock, whether that was reality or not, did have a few benefits. John knew about how to conceal evidence that he was the murderer, but there was still the problem of luring people to his home. For three weeks, these thoughts were constantly in his mind, though oftentimes he would shove them to the back and focus on the task at hand. He still loathed the specter's presence, but John's unusual ease didn't diminish rapidly during the three weeks.

He was grocery shopping when inspiration hit.

John had been standing in the cereal isle, gazing at the numerous boxes and brands though his mind was a million miles away, when a woman walked up to him. She shamelessly flirted with him and, for whatever reason, he responded.

She had followed him around the store and to the flat with a particularly shoddy excuse for her actions, and, once they arrived at 221B, John lured her into the kitchen and killed her in a similar, if not more than Mary, brutal manner.

It was then that he realized how simple it was to snag innocent albeit clearly desperate people from stores and murder them, and his grin widened. Of course, John would have to alternate shops to stump the police should they be heavily investigating.

Although he was beginning to believe that his time with Sherlock, including the many hours spent at New Scotland Yard, was just a figment of his imagination, John knew that they weren't bright enough to trace the murders to himself, at least, certainly not for a while.

Thus, John began luring and killing one person every two weeks from various stores. He didn't discriminate by gender, although some of the males were tougher to slaughter than the women, he was still able to carry out the deed.

This went on for months, during which John's pride grew and the specter diminished. Even through his largely-expanding ego, he knew that it was unusual for the police to _still_ be entirely ignorant. He was surprised, at first, when he had been particularly sloppy and they still didn't suspect him.

He finally understood Sherlock's "you see but do not observe" lark.

For whatever reason, while he was murdering a particularly beautiful young woman, John got carried away. She resembled Sherlock more so than Mary ever did and, in a fit of sadistic rage, he carved SHERLOCK HOLMES on her chest before killing her.

Her body was deposited in an alleyway a few miles away from Baker Street. A week later, John got a phone call from someone he hadn't talked to since before Sherlock's suicide.

"Hello?"

"John? Is that you? Is everything alright?" Lestrade frantically questioned.

"Yes, why? What happened?" He slipped into character with ease, becoming a worried man with such speed and skill that Sherlock Holmes himself would have been impressed.

"Someone's been murdering numerous people by luring them out of stores and stabbing them repeatedly."

"That's absolutely dreadful!"

"That isn't the worst part; the last victim had SHERLOCK HOLMES cut into her body. We think Moriarty is back and out to get you. We need to take you into protective custody."

"It's all right Detective Inspector; I think I can take care of myself."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade sounded hesitant but slightly relieved, and John's smirk widened.

"Positive."

They exchanged brief yet polite small talk before John ended the call, the smirk never vanishing from his face though it never appeared in his voice. Once again, John admired his own ability to sound sincere and frightened yet be filled with a strange sadistic joy. It was intoxicating to be so clever that Lestrade was completely fooled. While he wasn't Sherlock, Lestrade definitely wasn't stupid; if anyone could find John out, Lestrade could.

If it was possible, John's ego grew. Was his method of curing himself so well concealed that the police really thought they were dealing with the world's only yet greatest consulting criminal?

With his rising self-esteem, John's murders began to occur on a weekly basis, though he took the same precautions implemented before carving the detective's name in the beautiful woman's corpse.

This continued for another two months, up until the apparition suddenly didn't disappear after John murdered a particularly annoying female.

The horror that smote John as his hand, for the first time in years, touched the detective's flesh rather than air was unfathomable.


	5. Third Year- Sherlock

THIRD YEAR WITHOUT JOHN WATSON

* * *

The gunshot echoed throughout the otherwise barren warehouse as Sebastian Moran, the last remnant of Moriarty's web, collapsed to the ground, a bullet embedded in his heart.

Sherlock's hands shook slightly as he lowered the gun and advanced slowly towards the corpse. Once he was absolutely sure that Moran was indeed dead, Sherlock all but ran away from the dilapidated building.

For three years he had been chasing and killing or imprisoning the components of Moriarty's organization, yet Sherlock couldn't control the little spasms of shock and disgust that riddled his body after he shot one of them.

It wasn't right; Sherlock wasn't supposed to be the murderer. He was supposed to be the clue-finder, the light-bringer; he wasn't supposed to rip life from human beings no matter how despicable they were.

Sherlock didn't regret his actions; however, it still didn't sit right with him to murder people.

Sally Donavan was wrong about the detective.

It wasn't something that shocked Sherlock; given her taste in men alone, she was bound to be mistaken about a great many things, but it still came as a relief to the detective that he truly wasn't some death-loving psychopath.

As he boarded the plane from Egypt to London, Sherlock allowed his mind to wander to the one thing he had forbidden it to pursue during the long hunt.

Doctor John Hamish Watson.

Opening the wing dedicated entirely to the ex-army doctor immediately smote him with feelings, memories, and speculations about the future. How was John going to react when Sherlock came home form his long absence? Would he scream and shout, distorted by rage? Would he block Sherlock out, deny him access to John's life? Or would he get an affectionate homecoming?

Sherlock shook his head, his curls bouncing with his jerky and sudden movement. It would not help him to think so irrationally. If he was lucky, and right now he wasn't about to push it, Sherlock would get punched a few times and shouted at for at least an hour. He did decide to listen to John's shouts and screams as, unlike most of his emotional outbursts, they were important and justified one hundred percent.

He knew he would be lucky to be associating with John Watson after the three years; hoping for anything more was irrational and idiotic.

* * *

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock's mind still centered on the inevitable reunion between him and the doctor as the detective gracefully entered the sleek black car Mycroft sent to pick him up from the airport.

The drive was silent, the only sound being the clicking of Anthea's nails on her phone.

When the vehicle arrived at its destination, the detective sighed and exited as slowly as possible. He wanted to get the meeting over-with, but Sherlock was unable to motivate himself to move any faster than a turtle as he walked into the inconspicuous building that housed Mycroft's elegant office.

"Hello brother dear." Sherlock's sarcastic greeting earned an exasperated glare as the detective flopped into a chair.

"You're early."

"Moran wasn't hard to track or kill."

"And you think it's time to reveal yourself to John?"

"How is he?" Although he was loath to state the obvious, Sherlock had no qualms about asking for information on John.

"I'm not sure. He was cutting himself for a while, but after that, I haven't received much information on him other than normal. He goes to the hospital, for work, goes out every once in a while, and he had a girlfriend for a while."

Sherlock's gut wrenched. "Had?"

"She was murdered."

"Oh." He wasn't sure which feeling was stronger: relief or sympathy.

"He seems to be coping with your death pretty well considering the circumstances. Do you still wish to see him?"

"Sure." _Of course. _

Mycroft nodded warily before motioning for Sherlock to get out. The detective stood and, without another word, strode out of the building and into the black car.

* * *

It was nerve-racking for Sherlock to stand in front of 221B. He took a deep breath, and collected himself. He wasn't supposed to have such a strong reaction to coming home, yet he couldn't quell the happiness or fear.

What would John do when he saw the supposedly dead detective?

After minutes of waiting in front of the door, trying to come up with something witty to great the doctor with, Sherlock decided to be silent and let John say the first words. He sighed and began the familiar ascent into the flat.

It didn't look much different in his three year absence, though he knew John did not go unscathed. Neither did Sherlock, though that didn't matter to the detective. The only thing worth paying attention to was John.

The detective didn't see John, though he heard the shower running. He sat in his leather chair, the seat he hadn't seen in years, and stared at the yellow smiley face.

Sherlock almost didn't see John as he plopped into the seat across from the detective.

Their eyes locked and they stared until John chuckled, closed his eyes, and opened them. Sherlock was puzzled, but his confusion reached new heights when the doctor calmly arose from the chair, walked to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and slid the knife up his scar-ridden arm. John's eyes were focused not on the blood seeping from the wound, but on the detective, studying his face as though looking for something.

The sight of John cutting himself was absolutely horrifying; he had believed Mycroft as the man wouldn't lie about something so serious to the detective, but it was another thing entirely to witness, firsthand, the doctor performing the act.

As quickly as the blade sliced his skin, John turned around, grabbed his jacket, and exited the flat. Sherlock, of course, followed the doctor as he ignored the multiple cabs, instead choosing to walk to a destination unknown to the detective until he saw the building. It was a simple grocery store.

Although Sherlock didn't mind avoiding a reunion involving an emotional rollercoaster, he was befuddled and, quite frankly, disappointed.

After being dead for three years, wouldn't Sherlock's homecoming involve a conversation rather than a trip to the grocery store?

It was quite tedious at first, watching the doctor stroll along the isles, until he stopped in a milk isle, and froze until an average looking woman (aspiring author, cat lover, controlling mother, dead father, dissatisfying office job, desperate) began flirting with him.

Fury overwhelmed the detective. Who was this woman that believed she had the right to flirt with John, with _his _doctor?

Grief flooded the detective. Who was he to hold claim over John when Sherlock made the doctor believe he was dead?

Hurt smote the detective. Why was John flirting back when he knew Sherlock was watching? Was this some form of sick payback?

Sherlock would've rather listened to John cast him away than watch the doctor and the woman waltz through the store and, to his horror, back to Baker Street.

It was when John flashed a predatory smile that Sherlock finally noticed how _off _the situation was. John had never been so desperate for women that he would pick them up from grocery stores and take them to the flat. If the doctor were to meet someone he found attractive or interesting at a shop, he would've given them his number, not taken them to his home.

Still silent, Sherlock followed the pair into the flat. He sat once again in the leather chair and watched as the girl walked to the loo while John stood in the kitchen and stroked something in his jacket.

She emerged from the loo, obviously having gone to touch up her makeup, and began prattling about what sort of tea she liked while the doctor prepared the beverage.

Sherlock was just as befuddled as she when John, ignoring both of them, took two cups of tea, one prepared the way the detective desired, and set them on the desk.

John muttered something about not messing with the sugar, and the girl's eyes flickered towards the detective before resting once again on the doctor.

As Sherlock watched the doctor move towards the woman, grinning sadistically rather than flirtatiously, and, reaching for the blade he used earlier, began mutilating her body.

Sherlock was frozen in horror. This wasn't the John he knew and loved; this wasn't the stable, loyal, _good _doctor Sherlock worked with.

His mind was blank and his heart stopped. Why did John do this? Why did he cut up the woman like he did it frequently?

The doctor suddenly turned around and took in the appalled detective, a smug smile replacing the sadistic one.

John's face suddenly morphed from satisfaction to fury.

"WHY ARE YOU HERE? WHY HAVEN'T YOU DISAPPEARED YET?" John screamed as he loomed over Sherlock.

The doctor stretched his hand towards the detective's shoulder and winced when it hit skin.


	6. Present Day (End)

PRESENT DAY

* * *

John jerked his arm away from the detective and stumbled as Sherlock rose from the chair.

"John... What happened? Why did you..." His voice was dripping with sorrow and disbelief; his eyes were as large as saucers and his pupils were blown wide.

They both looked at the corpse for a moment before their eyes returned to the other, each filled with the same levels of shock though for different reasons.

"Why would you do this?"

"Why would you pretend to be dead and leave me all alone?" John's voice was apathetic and monotone though his mind buzzed with stunned anger.

"It was all for you... Everything I did was for you! Moriarty was there and-"

Sherlock kept talking, but John couldn't hear nor process a word the detective desperately spewed. John's mind was slowly quelling the panic and disbelief until only one emotion remained: anger.

It started as a thought that kept repeating itself in his mind, tumbling and turning about in the disorder until it became the only thing he heard, growing louder and louder with each passing minute. It continued chanting in his thoughts, though he began to whisper it. The whisper morphed into a normal voice, growing louder and louder until John was screaming it at the top of his lungs:

"YOU. LEFT. ME."

It was a simple whisper that Sherlock's agile ears detected, but he plowed on; he had to explain his actions. Sherlock kept ignoring it until John's phrase grew into shouts and screams; it was then, and only then, that the detective grew silent.

"YOU. LEFT. ME." John repeated, his fists clenching and his body rigid as the doctor seethed.

"DO YOU EVER LISTEN TO ME?" Sherlock screamed in reply, abandoning any mask or shield as the detective allowed his emotions to be fully broadcasted.

"YOU. LEFT. ME."

"I DID IT TO PROTECT YOU!"

"PROTECT ME? _PROTECT ME_!" John screamed, jabbing a finger on Sherlock's chest. "YOU HAUNTED ME; YOU _TORMENTED _ME FOR YEARS!"

"I LEFT BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!"

"If that's what you do to people you love, I pity your _actual_ enemies." John sneered, reeling as he moved to the kitchen, the detective quickly following.

"Everything I did, everything I've done, was to protect you. I didn't think you would be this affected by my death."

"You didn't think _death_ would affect me? Do you know how many friends I have had to bury over the years? Do you realize that you were the closest friend I've ever had in my _whole life_? I'd rather have been tortured and murdered at the hands of Moriarty than gone through those three years!" John ripped his sleeves up, exposing the numerous scars on his arms. "You did this to me Sherlock; you made me do this to myself."

"Why?" Sherlock moved forward, his hand ghosting over the self-inflicted wounds.

"You wouldn't leave me alone. I wanted you gone; cutting myself was the only thing that worked. When cutting stopped driving you away, I began killing people to make you continue to vanish." John paused, collecting his thoughts. "I loved you, you know."

Sherlock's eyes softened, though they didn't loose their horrified gleam, and he leaned forward. John, after running his fingers along his jacket, moved forward as well, until Sherlock was pressed against the wall.

Their lips were centimeters apart, the space between vanishing with each passing second. John grinned sadistically, one hand reaching for Sherlock's waist while the other pulled something long, sharp and metallic out of his jacket. Before Sherlock could blink, the blade rose over his chest.

"And now I can be rid of you forever."

The knife plunged into Sherlock's heart. John let go of the detective's corpse, watching in sick fascination as it slid to the ground.

* * *

It was many hours before the sudden trance that gripped John moments after he ripped the life out of his best friend and love vanished, and the doctor moved toward the corpse.

It was then that a sickening horror smote him.

He cradled Sherlock's body, his tears drenching the angular face. His bright multicolored orbs lifelessly stared into the distance, much like after the fall all those years ago, though this time, the death was real and by John's hands.

It was a sort of sick Romeo and Juliet, he thought as his hands cupped Sherlock's cheeks.

John pressed his lips to the detective's in a chaste kiss.

There was one thing left to do; one thing missing from the story.

After all, what was Juliet without her Romeo?

John ruefully grinned, yanking the knife out of the detective's chest. With one hand, the doctor affectionately ruffled Sherlock's hair, and, with the other, he clasped the handle.

"Life is not worth living without you. Let us hope death will be kinder to us both."

John laughed, though it was one of heartbreak rather than mirth.

His hand was perfectly steady as the blade rose over his heart and plunged into the organ.


End file.
